A Dance with Death
by Elisabeth Bennett
Summary: Sherlock is becoming quite famous, to no one's surprise. His cases are becoming more complicated, more puzzling. Livia has become trapped in her own mind. There's not much time until Livia is broken, and Sherlock is at his wit's end. Of course, now everything lies in the hands of the world's only Consulting Detective and his colleague, the one and only John Watson.
1. Chapter 1

It was storming (of course it was) when she finally hailed down a taxi. She had been walking for hours in a slight rain, trying to find a cab everywhere. She had planned on getting to her destination before midnight, but that hadn't quite worked out as she thought it would have. Her dark coffee-coloured hair clung to her face, now soaked. A flash of lighting lit the sky, and she glanced at the sky and smiled as the thunder rolled, climbing into the back of the car. She spoke quietly to the driver, telling him the address and falling silent again. She threw back her hood (what little of it had covered her head) and shook her hair back before resting her head against the headrest. She considered taking a cigarette out from the box in her left pocket and smoking to calm her nerves, but she decided she could do so later.

The man drove slowly, but she didn't mind. She was still trying to think of the words to explain herself. It wouldn't be easy. She couldn't decide whether or not to get a small hotel room nearby and wait for morning or just go up to the door this early in the morning. She had heard from certain...sources that he stayed up until all hours of the morning. An insomniac. She couldn't imagine this being anything but true. Solving crimes, the way he did could get to you in some way or another.

Darkened streets, only lit by the faint light of faraway streetlights, passed by her slowly. She took in her surroundings, memorising the turns and street names so if something didn't go right, she'd always find her way home. Watching the rain pound against the plate of glass separating her from the roads of London, she thought about her life living in the countryside of Chorleywood and how different the city was. She'd adjust, she surmised. She had to; she had nowhere else to go.

She checked the time on the car's dashboard. 1:17 AM. November 24, 2011. It wasn't quite cold enough for the snow to fall yet, but it wasn't warm enough to go without a coat. She pulled hers tighter around her. She wondered what he would be doing, assuming he was still awake, when she got there. Maybe he would be sitting somewhere, bored out of his mind and wishing for a case to come in.

Well, it was his lucky day. His wish was about to come true.

She had arrived at 221B Baker Street.

He sat in his armchair, staring at the ceiling and pressing his fingertips together. He placed them near his lips, mulling over things in that great mind of his. His thoughts were racing at one hundred miles per hour with him analysing them even faster. He couldn't do any experiments, unfortunately; Mrs. Hudson had forbidden him to continue any past nine o'clock at night. John had tried to stay up with him for a little while, but he had been nodding off around midnight. He had sent him to bed, saying he preferred to be alone anyway. This wasn't entirely true. Around John, he felt somewhat safe. John was his best friend. He would always be there for him.

He fixed his bluish, greenish, greyish eyes upon the smiley face (shot through multiple times from his previous bored self) on the wall, willing time to go faster. He had tried sleeping, as suggested by John, but he couldn't stop his mind from shutting down. There could be so much that was missed if he slept. A murder could happen. A bank could be robbed. Anything was possible, and he didn't want to miss a moment of it.

Suddenly there was a knocking at the door. He glanced at the clock on the mantle before looking towards the doorway. Who could possibly be visiting Baker Street at 1:23 in the morning?

"John!" he called, not too keen on getting up. "John! _John_! Blast you, John Watson...make me answer the door like a butler..."

He unwillingly got up and tied his robe tighter around his slim waist. Running a hand through his dark, unruly hair and clearing his throat, he reminded himself to be nice, with John's voice echoing the same words through his head.

As he opened the door, he prepared himself for the worst.

"Sherlock Holmes, Consulting Detective." He paused, looking at the young girl standing in front of him. She was no older than he was (twenty-eight years old, thank you very much) but much smaller than him. Her hair was very dark, almost black, with fringe that covered her forehead and half her eyes. Her skin was as pale as cream, but what caught him off-guard were her bright blue eyes, tinged with gold around the outside of the iris and surrounding the pupil. They shimmered with what looked to be nervousness, as everyone's did around him, but he felt differently about this girl. She had something about her that made him stop to consider her, _really_ consider her.

Then he noticed the storm around them. "Do come in."

She smiled sweetly at him as he stepped aside and let her in, closing the door behind her. "Thank you."

Sherlock nodded then motioned towards the stairs. As she climbed, he noticed she walked lightly on her toes, most likely from years of being a dancer. A ballerina, he guessed. She also carried a bag with her, filled with what Sherlock surmised were clothes and woman's toiletries.

He walked past her as she threw back her hood and stood in the middle of the room, examining her surroundings. "Tea or coffee?"

She jumped in surprise at his voice, but it wore away and she shook her head. "No, thank you." But there was something in her eyes that made him raise an eyebrow at her; he could tell she had wanted to say yes.

"You're quite sure?"

She considered for a second before saying, "I'll have tea, actually. Two sugars, if you don't mind."

Sherlock smiled slightly to make her feel better and glanced at her. "You can take off your cloak. Just put it near the fireplace. I'll get one going after I get your tea." He turned as he let the water heat up and watched her carefully. Her fingers were long and delicate; her nails were as equally long and painted a soft pink. She dropped her bag and undid the clasp so gently; he was surprised when the cloak fell off her shoulders, revealing a flowy, pale blue top with long sleeves that accentuated her slight figure and blue eyes. Her skin-tight jeans and soft-soled flats were soaked through from the storm outside. Thunder and lightning continued to assail the city and shook the buildings from foundation to roof. She examined the books on the shelves, her fingers occasionally touching the spine of some of them. She was a curious one, both in the way that she was mysterious and the way that she looked everything. Her eyes glowed with childish interest.

Finally, the kettle started whistling. She jumped, startled (again), and laughed lightly. "I'm sorry. I'm a little...jittery."

Sherlock prepared her tea and walked into the living room, handing her the mug and bending to start the fire. Once it had caught, he sat and motioned for her to do the same, which she did. "Now, why don't you begin with your name and why you're here?"

She sipped her tea and set it on the table next to her. "My name is Olivia Parkes, but most people call me Livia. And actually, I was hoping you could...well, do your...thing." She blushed as she said it.

He raised an eyebrow. "You want me to deduce, am I correct?" She nodded. "Very well. I can tell by the way you walk that you're a dancer, most likely a ballet dancer. You've been dancing for many years, most likely for more than ten. Your fringe is covering a scar that you suffered during childhood, one that you're embarrassed of and feel mars your appearance, hence the hairstyle, which is your natural colour. The scar looks as if you fell, and it is small, so I'm guessing you fell against the edge of something brick or stone. Someone, an older sibling, most likely pushed you when you were too defenseless to help yourself. You're right-handed, as proven by the roughness of your index finger on your right hand and how your thumbnail on your right hand is shorter than that of the one on your left hand.

"You ride horses, or did when you were younger, judging by your stature as you sit. Your straight back and the way you hold your head up hint to it, and you also have calluses on the inside of your palm below your fingers. You stopped, for an unknown reason, most likely, because you moved away from your countryside home.

"You grew up in a large family with many siblings. You had an older sister who taught you to dance, and an older brother who taught you to stand up for yourself. You haven't had much contact with your younger siblings, and you aren't as close. However, your older sister and brother are in the city or are close to the city and you keep in touch with them often." When she gave him a questioning look, he answered, "Your bracelet is silver and worn down with the words 'Eva Nicole Parkes' written on the inside. Your brother I guessed because you have a class ring on your thumb that is obviously too big and has the year 2001 on it, which is obviously not your graduating year as you're only about twenty-four or twenty-five. You would have had to graduate in 2003 or 2002."

Livia cleared her throat. "My brother died a year ago."

Sherlock nodded. "Yes, in a fire, from what I can tell. The ring has scorch marks around the gem itself, an emerald. He was born in May." She nodded.

"Alright, I'll tell you a little about myself now, then."

"That won't be necessary. Life stories are not required, nor are the particularly interesting to me. Moving on," Sherlock started, but Livie shook her head.

"You'll want to know. I am indeed twenty-four years old. I do dance ballet, but I've stopped recently due to my...issue. I lived in Chorleywood, not far from London, until I was seventeen, when I then went to Uni here. In 2008, I graduated. Until about two month ago, I lived with my sister, her husband, and their four-year-old daughter, Mila. Last year, my brother, whom was also living here in London and working for a large bank branch, died in an apartment fire. He was asleep and died of smoke inhalation.

"Around three months ago, I began receiving messages from an anonymous source. The first said, 'Watch yourself'. From there, they've just gotten worse. I had to move out of my sister's house, because I didn't want to endanger her family. The latest, received two days ago, said, 'We're coming'. I panicked and went to stay at a friend's house, and yesterday, I got a call that there had been a break-in at my flat. Nothing had been taken, but there was writing on the wall. 'We'll find you'. I've been flat hopping all day, and a friend of mine suggested I go to you. So...here I am," she finished, toying with the hem of her shirt. Her eyes were downcast for most of the story, as if she were ashamed. Sherlock placed his fingertips together and pursed his lips.

"Haven't you gone to the police?" he asked, getting up and going to the kitchen. He needed a nicotine patch. Or two. Possibly three, but he told himself to wait and see if the case got more complicated.

"Yes, but they didn't see it as important. They just said to go stay with my parents for a while, but I don't think that will help."

He slapped on a couple patches and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. "Yes, you're right of course. They're probably watching us right now, whoever they are, your stalker. Describe the handwriting to me."

Livia turned to him. "Oh, it wasn't handwriting. Typewriter. Old-fashioned, probably from the 1920s from the look of it. I have the latest with me." She fished in her pocket and drew out a small envelope, crumpled from the pocket but still completely dry. She stood and handed it to him, and as he took it, his hand brushed hers. Her hands were as cold as ice, and he drew back slightly.

"Something wrong?" she asked, her eyes confused again.

"Your hands are incredibly cold. Warm yourself by the fire."

Livia smiled delicately. "They're always cold. Mum called me the Ice Princess growing up. Never quite liked that nickname..." she trailed off before sitting back down and sipping the rest of her tea. She did as he suggested, though, by warming her hands slightly by the fire and placing her soaked shoes close to it. She curled up into a ball and stared, transfixed, into the roaring, crackling fire.

Sherlock placed the piece of paper under the microscope. Sure enough, the print had come from a typewriter, although most likely from the early 1930s. He took it away from under the light and examined it at eye level. No markings other than from where it had been slightly crumpled. He spent the next two and a half hours looking at the scrap of paper, deducing things from it and making notes about other things.

When he glanced into the living room for the first time in a while, he saw that Livia had fallen asleep in the chair; her left arm was tucked under her head and her other arm rested on her curled legs. Getting up to stretch, he grabbed a blanket from the couch he usually laid on until a case came and placed it over her. He fed the fire and took her cup of now-cold tea to the sink before glancing at the mantle clock. It was near five in the morning. John would be up soon to go to work. Sherlock sighed and ran a hand through his hair. His nicotine patches had worn off a while ago, and seeing no point in keeping them on other than for comfort, he tore them off and threw them in the bin next to the refrigerator. Going to the living room, he paced and rubbed his temples for what seemed like hours, trying to piece together things in his head from what little the girl in his living room had told him.


	2. Chapter 2

When Sherlock next looked at the clock, it was 5:45. He could hear John's alarm wake him up, hear John cursing as he slammed the alarm clock off, and hear him stumbling to the bathroom to freshen up. When the shower had started, Sherlock went to the kitchen and made coffee for the both of them, something he rarely did. But he felt he owed it to John, especially when he had to explain the sleeping girl in their living room and why she was there. The coffee was just about done when John entered the living room.

"Sherlock, I—" he stopped mid-sentence. "Sherlock?"

Sherlock walked into the living room holding two cups of coffee, one for himself and one for his colleague. "John, you might want to keep your voice down. Both Mrs. Hudson and our new friend are sleeping."

John's eyes widened. "_Our new friend?_ Sherlock who the bloody hell is she?"

Sherlock sighed as he sat and sipped his coffee. "Her name is Olivia Parkes, preferring to go by Livia. She is twenty-four years old and has a serial stalker. I've spent all night trying to figure out the origin of the piece of paper on the table that says, 'We're coming'. Her brother was killed last year in a fire, but I don't think it was an accident. However, we're not going to tell her that until she is ready to hear it."

John sat in a desk chair and gaped at the girl for a second before shaking his head and drinking his coffee. "Poor girl... Any family?"

"Much, but not a lot in the area besides her older sister and her family. She came from Chorleywood, a town a little northwest from here."

"Yeah, I know where it is. Can't the police help her?" His dark, blue-grey eyes wouldn't leave her, mystified by her presence.

Sherlock shifted and set his cup on the table, pressing his hands together and examining Livia. "She tried. They said it was none of their business. I almost didn't take the case, but there's something about this that isn't right...something about _her_ that isn't right..." He stood and went to his desk, taking papers and reading them before throwing them aside and taking others up. John sighed and finished his coffee before standing and putting it in the kitchen.

"Sherlock, can't you ever keep the kitchen—" he started, but there was a sudden gasp as Livia awoke and sat up, breathing quickly.

Sherlock rushed to her, and John walked to the archway, watching carefully.

"Livia, what is it?" Sherlock asked, pulling his armchair closer to hers and taking her chin in his hand to point her face towards his, only inches from hers. Her shoulders were shaking and sobs erupted from her chest. John came and stood next to Sherlock, and when she noticed him, she drew back a little.

"It's okay; this is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. He helps me with the cases," Sherlock said.

Livia looked up at John again. "You're a doctor." It wasn't a question, rather a statement. Sherlock could hear the slight relief in her voice, although he wasn't quite sure why.

John nodded. "Yes, I served as an army doctor for some time in Afghanistan. Why, what's the matter, Olivia?"

Her eyes grew wide and she whimpered. "You have to help me."

Livia had calmed down considerably from when she had awoken, although she wasn't completely tranquil. She felt like she needed to smoke very badly. John had made her some tea and gotten her a couple of biscuits from one of the many cabinets in their small kitchen. She was wrapped in a blanket (Heaven knows where it came from) and was waiting for John to get off the phone with his employer, having requested calling off for the day. Sherlock sat across from her, his eyes closed and his hands pressed together. Occasionally he would ask her a question about her brother or her childhood, but it never seemed to be of much help.

Finally, John ended his call and sat in the chair next to Sherlock, a notepad in his hands and a pen between his fingers. "Alright then, Olivia—"

"Livia, if you don't mind," she interrupted. She hated her full name. "And actually, hang on. I need something."

She reached down into her coat pocket and was about to draw out her cigarettes when Sherlock said, "John, get the ashtray." John stared at him, bewildered, as she opened the carton and pulled one out.

"How'd you know she needed to smoke?"

Sherlock threw him a look that clearly said, "You're an idiot."

"Her fingers on her right hand were tapping from anxiety, a common sign of a smoker who hasn't in a while." Livia smiled at him and offered him one, to which he shook his head, but not without a second of reluctance. She laughed.

"Are you sure, Mr. Holmes?" she asked in a teasing manner, mocking him from earlier that morning. Sherlock only rolled his eyes and sighed. Livie lit up her cigarette and took a deep breath, then exhaled the smoke in Sherlock's face. He seemed to love it, as he closed his eyes and took a deep breath. He noted that while she may have eased down from her nervous ways, she still spoke softly and with perfect enunciation and pronunciation. Her vowels were round and her consonants were sharp and succinct, as a person should always speak.

John smiled light-heartedly. "Okay, Livia, now what is it that you need help with besides this serial stalker of yours."

She raised an eyebrow at Sherlock for the term, but he just shrugged and she sighed. "I'm not sure where to begin, but I'll start where it's simplest." John nodded and Sherlock locked eyes with her. "I have frequent nightmares, ones that terrify me and send me into a panic. Such as just now, I had a small nightmare. Nothing too serious, which is surprising to me."

"When did they begin?" John asked, furiously scribbling things down.

"I was eighteen years old, the spring of 2005, when I went to Uni here. During my first term, a group of students from the neurology department asked if I wanted to be part of an experiment, mostly just studying my mind while I slept. I agreed, seeing no harm in it, as it was just a group of university students doing a test on sleeping patterns; I wasn't going to have my genes mixed with a lab rat's or anything.

"I went to the lab a few nights later after having almost no sleep. They hooked me up to some electrodes to measure my brain waves and had me lie down on the bed in the room. They then turned out the lights and exited the room, leaving me in complete darkness to fall asleep. That was the night of the first nightmare. I watched as my boyfriend at the time was struck by a car. I saw him park across the street from my flat, but as he got out, a car lost control and slammed into him. All I remember is seeing a lot of blood, too much blood. His head had slammed against the concrete, his head split open and bleeding profusely. His body was twisted and mangled, and I couldn't tear my eyes away. I couldn't escape the dream, as much as I tried.

"Finally, when I did wake up, I wasn't sure at first that I was. They told me, 'Thank you for your participation, we will show you to the front door. Any side effects are temporary, we promise. Good day.' However, ever since then, I've had frequent night terrors. When I tried to go back and find the department, I discovered there was no such group of students and there had been no test on sleep patterns. It was as if the whole experiment had never happened. It made me question the reality I was living in for a while, and it let do the break-up with said boyfriend, which really wasn't a good relationship in the first place." She shook her head as she stubbed out the last of the cigarette. "Anyway, that's why I woke up frightened. I didn't know where I was and a nightmare had come to me again. I'm afraid I don't remember this one, however. Some of them are embedded in my mind, and some of them are gone as soon as I awake."

As Livia finished her story, Sherlock raised an eyebrow. "So, that's it then? You have nightmares, and you want John to make them go away? I don't believe there's any technology other than therapy for that."

John nodded. "I'd have to agree with Sherlock on that one. I can't really do anything."

Livia shook her head. "Please, I just want to know what's going on with me." As her eyes met Sherlock's, he saw something in them that slightly worried him. Fear. Immense and total fear.

Leaning forward in his seat and resting his elbows on his knees, he asked her, "What are you so afraid of?"

She rubbed her temples and sighed. "You wouldn't understand, which I can imagine considering your insomniac qualities. These nightmares are terrifying. Sometimes I wake up, but I'm still there, in my dream. I can't shake it off. I could go a whole day, trapped in the world of my nightmare. I can't tell if I'm really here right now, talking to you, the Great Sherlock Holmes. Or, I could be in a nightmare. I don't really know." Something had changed in her voice, something darker and more dangerous.

"You're here," Sherlock assured her, but she didn't seem convinced.

She leaned in to meet his eyes levelly. "Prove it." Her voice was like cold steel, but still as soft as always. She sat back again, daring him to challenge her. Sherlock glanced at John before he stood. In one swift motion, he had raised his hand and slapped her, hard. Her head snapped to the right, her cheek already turning red with the print of his hand against her pale cheeks, but she hadn't cried out as he had expected.

John had risen to his feet and grabbed Sherlock's arm. "Are you bloody insane? Was that really necessary? We don't just _hit_ a woman because she doesn't know where her mind is!" He turned to Livia. "Are you alright?"

She was slightly rubbing her cheek when she answered, "I'm fine." Then she looked back at Sherlock. He was expecting her to yell at him, tell him to forget everything she had said and just forget about her. He expected her to stand and walk out, right then and there. But she didn't. She whispered, "Thank you."

He leaned down close to her, but she didn't flinch or pull away. "Next time I tell you something trust-worthy just do yourself a favour and trust me."

She gave a hollow laugh. "You really think I can trust anyone?" Sherlock didn't react, but John looked uncomfortably between the two of them before going to the kitchen to retrieve an ice pack for her, mumbling something about being a gentleman.

Sherlock looked to Livia, who was now staring at the glowing red embers in the fireplace, before adding another couple logs to the fire. As he did, he said to her, "I've never hit a woman before."

Livia figured that was as close to an apology she would ever get from Sherlock Holmes. "I've never been hit by a man. My mum once, but never a man, nor had I ever imagined I would." She glanced at the man standing at the fireplace and continued, "But I do thank you genuinely, Mr. Holmes. This past week has been a living hell. I haven't been able to tell whether or not I'm truly awake; some events have been off-kilter. Some moments, I could tell I was awake, but others... It was risky."

John came back and handed her the ice pack, now wrapped in a thin towel to help keep her hands from freezing while still applying some cold to her cheek. "These nightmares," he began, "what usually happens during them?"

Livia shook her head slightly, her dark curls bouncing. "Hard to say. They change so frequently, unless it's one of those days where I've gone the whole day thinking I'm in a nightmare. Those nights, it will usually keep with what happened throughout the day and what happened the previous night. Such as the other night. I believed I was on a cruise with Eva, my sister, and the next thing I knew, part of the ship had blown up in a freak accident. It was a _Titanic_ moment. People were falling off the sinking ship, and Eva and I were trying to get to a life raft. Unfortunately, I was the only one who was saved; she insisted I get into a life raft that only had room for one more. She went down with the ship and drowned. I went the whole day thinking she had died." She paused. "Now that I think about it, actually, usually someone dies. Someone I know, and sometimes it will be joined with a mass murder. Innocent people I've never met before will die."

Sherlock was sitting across from her again, John next to him. He was staring at the ceiling, processing what she said. John was writing notes on his pad of paper again.

"And what about your brother's death? How did you cope and come to terms with that?" John asked. She fell silent, looking down at her folded hands that rested in her lap. Her cheek was still bright red, but the swelling had gone down enough.

"Erm, my mum was very upset with me. I kept thinking to myself, 'Oh, he'll be back. I'll wake up from this dream, and I'll go visit him.' She told me I was crazy, he was dead. I had gone to his funeral. I feared I was stuck in this nightmare for months. I thought I was permanently stuck inside of my own psyche. I refused to believe my mother that I was in reality. My brother and I had been so close, it was heartbreaking to me, the idea that he was no longer here. He had been my rock, my protector. If he was gone, whom did I have? Eva had her own family now, and while it was painful for her as well, she had to stay strong for her husband and daughter. I felt like I was alone.

"One night, my mum and I had a shouting match. I hadn't been myself, and she was so worried. All I remember is telling her I loved her, but I couldn't do this anymore, and then she grabbed me and wouldn't let go. She was preventing me from doing something, and in my struggle to get away, I hit my head very badly against the corner of a small cabinet.

"When I woke up, I knew I was in reality. There had been no nightmares that night, as the drugs in my veins had prevented any of them. My father was sitting in a chair next to my bed. When I asked what happened, he told me I had been talking about suicide. I had read somewhere that if a person died in their dreams or nightmares they would wake up automatically, and I had been so convinced it would work for me, too. That night, my mum had saved me from shooting myself in the head with my father's handgun. I was to stay in the hospital for at least six months, and if things got better, I could go free. If not, I was to be checked into the mental wing of the hospital and stay there for at least a year and a half for psychological concerns.

"I received much counseling for my nightmares. The drugs they had given me, Chlorpromazine, were working for a few months, but then all of a sudden, they came back. I didn't tell any of my doctors. I had learned to accept this was a part of me, no matter how much I didn't like it. Three months later, I was discharged and allowed to return home," Livia finished. Her hands were slightly shaking, but she took a couple of deep breaths which helped calm her.

Sherlock was in a world of his own, processing what she had just told him. "Did the nightmares grow stronger when they returned?"

"Definitely stronger. That's why I was thankful when you hit me; I can hardly tell the difference anymore," she chuckled nonchalantly.

He nodded and walked back to the kitchen table. He picked up the threat that had been sent to Livia. "Anything else of unusual importance?"

She thought for a second, then said, "Before I get a nightmare, I usually have a brief but extremely painful headache. When I wake up, I don't remember the headache. Not until another one comes." There was something off about the way she had spoken that time, but Sherlock wasn't paying attention as much as he should have been.

John walked to his desk to type the information he had gotten from Livia, but not before casting her a confused glance. "Then how do you know right now about the headaches?"

Sherlock snapped his attention to Livia, now standing. "Because she's about to have another one."

Sure enough, her hands went to her head, and she cried out in immense pain. John stood, watching her carefully, but Sherlock was already next to her, taking her shoulders. Her eyes were closed, and her face was scrunched up in excruciating pain. The throbbing in her head was intense, blocking out every sensation she had ever felt in her body. It swallowed her, leaving her nothing to grasp onto to keep herself tied to reality. The world around her was fading, and fading fast.

"Livia, stay with me! Listen to me, just focus on my voice!" But it was too late; she was already swaying, losing consciousness.

Then, quite suddenly, she let out a little, "Oh", and fell, Sherlock catching her and holding her awkwardly as John ran to fetch a wet cloth to place on her forehead. Sherlock laid her down on the loveseat below the smiley face on the wall to check her vital signs. Her heartbeat was quite quick and her temperature had risen at least two or three degrees (though her hands still managed to be cold), but everything else seemed to be fine. As he was doing this, he heard a gasp from behind him.

"Sherlock Holmes!" Mrs. Hudson exclaimed. He didn't bother looking behind him; he knew Detective Inspector Lestrade was right behind her.

"What's happened?" he demanded, coming to help Sherlock, but he waved him off and stood.

"She's fainted is all." He saw it as the easiest and most logical way to explain things at the moment. He'd have more time later.

"From what?"

John stepped in at this time. "She was out in that storm last night. Came a long way to see Sherlock. I'm assuming she caught something." Sherlock sent him a look of minor gratitude.

"Precisely. Now, please excuse me for a moment. She needs somewhere to lie down and recover in comfort, and I happen to have a bed available." He bent and picked her up easily and quietly carried her to his bedroom. As he did so, she wrapped her arms around his neck and mumbled something incoherent. He placed her on his bed and watched her for a moment. She was still mumbling, but Sherlock couldn't hear. Assuming what she might say was important, he sent a quick text to John in the next room.

_John, come to my room. And bring your pen and pad. –SH_

John took out his mobile when the text arrived and sighed. "Excuse me, Inspector, Mrs. Hudson, but my partner in crime needs me to check on the girl."

Lestrade stopped him. "Hang on, who is she?" John pursed his lips.

"I think Sherlock should be able to tell you everything. Excuse me." He made for the bedroom, the sounds of Lestrade throwing his hands up in frustration following behind him. As he entered Sherlock's room, he saw him sitting on the bed next to Livia's sleeping form, his hands tented and to his lips, per usual.

"She's talking in her sleep. I want you to stay here with her and write down everything she says. Or most of what you can get." He stood. "I'll go see what Lestrade wants."

He began to leave, but John grabbed his arm. "Wait a sec, why do I have to do the boring stuff? Aren't you capable of writing?"

Sherlock gave him a look. "So you're telling me you can go to the crime scene of whatever crime Lestrade has for me—"

"Us!"

"—take one glance at it, and be able to tell me exactly everything that happened?"

John sighed. "Fair point." He stepped aside. "Go have fun without me."

Sherlock scoffed. "You have fun without me plenty of times. Don't worry, maybe I'll bring you back a souvenir."

As he walked out, John said quietly, "Some decent coffee would be nice..." But he sat down on the bed and took out his pad and pen, doing as his best friend asked of him.

Meanwhile, said best friend waltzed into the living room, Mrs. Hudson having disappeared to change out of her nightclothes. The inspector sat rubbing his temples in the same chair where Livia had been sleeping last night.

Sherlock sat across from him and picked his violin up from the table next to him. He made sure it was tuned correctly before playing a piece from Bach, trying to ease his mind enough to pay attention to the case Lestrade had for him.

"Why are you here?" he asked.

Lestrade looked up. "Small case. No one unusual, but the circumstances are." He settled back in his chair. "But first—"

"The girl," Sherlock said, pausing in his playing. "She has a case for me. Her name is Olivia Parkes, a ballet dancer although she hasn't danced in some time. Comes from Chorleywood, I'm sure you know where that is. Her brother died last year in a fire, although I'm not sure it was an accident. She has frequent nightmares and a serial stalker on her trail. In fact, they're most likely listening in on us now, plotting our deaths. We've interfered with their plans, and now they are slightly panicked. They had hoped to kill her before she sought help."

Lestrade stared at him for a few seconds before shaking his head and giving a short laugh. "You'll be interested in this case, then. A woman's vanished and is presumed to be dead. Her name is Eva Parkes, and now I'm quite sure she's tied to your case."

Sherlock smiled and continued to play his violin as gracefully as any professional.

"It would appear so."


	3. Chapter 3

Sherlock climbed into the back of a taxi and instructed the cabbie to New Scotland Yard so he could look at the evidence found at the scene. He was slightly upset Lestrade hadn't called him earlier, when the scene was still being investigated. However, he had been assured that the photographer at the scene had taken plenty of pictures that depicted the scene perfectly; it had done nothing to assuage him.

When he arrived, Sherlock went straight up to the conference rooms where the DI had laid out everything for him. As he entered, he was greeted with the least favourite of the faces he knew.

"Morning, psychopath," Anderson drawled as he tacked up the last photo of the crime scene. In the room with him were Lestrade and Donovan.

"High-functioning sociopath," Sherlock corrected, then turned to Lestrade. "Did he really have to be here as well? Donovan I can work with, but really?" He twisted back to Anderson. "You of all people had to be working today..."

Anderson scoffed. "Lestrade had to bring in you of all people..."

Lestrade sighed and ran a hand over his jaw. "Girls, behave."

Rolling his eyes and ignoring the incompetent man watching him from the corner of the room, Sherlock immediately snapped on a pair of gloves and went to the evidence found at the scene of the crime. There were only three things in baggies: a mobile phone, a pair of house keys, and a picture of a young girl smiling at the camera. Mila, Sherlock gathered. What had first caught his attention was the mobile, so he picked it up and took it out of the bag. Smudging on the left side of the screen suggested she was dominantly left-handed, but she held her phone in her right hand so she could use her left fingers to type. At least when she had both hands free. Otherwise she held it and typed with her left. The thick case was decorated with a brilliantly coloured argyle design, but the case itself suggested she had been prone to dropping her other phones and wanted to be safe with this one, considering it was an expensive iPhone.

Lestrade glanced up at him and furrowed his eyebrows. "Ah yes, the mobile. When we found it, there was an unsent text message to Olivia on it."

"Livia..." Sherlock muttered.

"What was that?"

"Nothing." He put the phone down and examined the pictures. "Where was she last seen?"

Donovan answered him. "Her husband tells us that last night, she had gone to the store to pick up some milk, just a block away, but she never returned. CCTV records show that she entered the store, but left without buying anything. When she exited the store, the CCTV stopped showing her. All the cameras had been turned away or distracted by other things. There are no images of her abduction, nor has any suspect been linked with the crime. However, we're keeping an eye on her husband, just to be sure."

Sherlock scoffed. "You're wasting your time on the husband. He was at home with their daughter, Mila."

Lestrade and Donovan exchanged a glance. "There was no daughter in their home. It was just the husband; he didn't mention anything about a child."

Sherlock looked up at them and straightened up. "How difficult it must have been to solve things before you had me." He slammed his hands onto the table and leaned against it. "Think! Use your minds! If you were a parent and your significant other had just been abducted and you had a young child, would you want them to know what had happened? He sent his daughter to either his or Eva's parents' home; he didn't want her to get worked up over her mother's disappearance."

"But why would he not even mention her? And all the photos that would have had them together were taken down," Anderson said, crossing his arms and looking over pictures of Eva's living room.

"Oh Anderson, for once could you just act like you have an IQ over 50?" Sherlock sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose and pacing. "He knew he was in danger, that he was being watched. In case whoever was watching him was going to come after him, he didn't want them to know he had a daughter or where she had gone. To make it all easier, he pretended Mila didn't exist so as to protect her."

Lestrade rubbed his forehead. "That would make a lot more sense. Especially as to who the girl in the picture is. How old is she?"

"Four, just old enough to know something's wrong when Mummy or Daddy doesn't come home." Sherlock examined the pictures on the table with a glance at each, putting together the pieces of evidence as best he could, like a puzzle. But it seemed that nothing was connecting properly. A picture of Eva was tacked up on the bulletin board at the back of the room. As he stood before it, he saw the resemblance between her and Livia. She had the same dark hair, the same soft features, and the same smile (although hers was less demure). The only feature that differed her from her sister was her green eyes, golden specks dancing in them like sparks from a fire. He looked closer, trying to get information from what he could of her, besides what Livia had told him. He unfortunately couldn't get much, as it was merely a picture rather than the actual person. She was indeed a ballet dancer, more avid than her younger sister, from her posture and feet position. He inferred that she was correctly left-handed, because in the picture, her left foot was in front of her right one. It was a terrible thing to deduce it from, but it was a nod towards it, and that was enough for Sherlock.

"Any weapons found at the crime scene?" Sherlock asked, although he already knew the answer. Lestrade could see this.

"Everything you see here was at the scene. You tell me. No blood, no casings, nothing. None of the neighbors saw or heard anything, and there were no signs of a struggle. She dropped her phone, keys, and oddly enough, a picture of her daughter, but that was everything."

This case was becoming more and more troublesome... Sherlock's thoughts flickered to Livia briefly. He wondered if she was still trapped in her nightmare and if John had gathered anything.

Then Donovan spoke quietly. "It's as if she went with the kidnapper willingly..."

Something clicked in Sherlock's mind. He spun to face her. "Say that again."

"Well, I mean, it just looks like she knew what was happening," she said again, looking at Lestrade quickly. Sherlock rubbed his temples, mumbling. Then he started thinking aloud.

"She left it for us," he said. The others looked at him. "The mobile! She left it for us- or rather, Livia- to find and see that something had happened to her."

Anderson shook his head. "And who would Livia be?"

Sherlock was already pacing the room again, his palms pressed together. "Anderson, don't talk; I'm trying to think, and I can't focus when you're slowly draining the intelligence out of the room."

The inspector answered Anderson. "She's Eva's younger sister, twenty-four years old. She came to Sherlock with her own case, now believed to be linked to this one. A serial stalker, if I remember correctly."

Sherlock ignored them all and continued to talk. "She knew that she was in danger prior to being kidnapped. She knew her sister would know what was going on, so she tried to at least contact her to let her know something was wrong. Her kidnapper wasn't the smartest and didn't think much of her leaving her phone behind. I wouldn't be surprised if he was hired by this stalker of Livia's to kidnap the sister. If so, he's probably already dead to avoid any tracings. Her keys were dropped by complete accident, but she left the picture with her mobile so that Livia would know it was hers. Where was the phone when it was found?"

"Beneath a light pole, propped up..." Lestrade realised why that was significant. "Oh. Jesus, how'd we miss that?"

"It's a code. A signal. 'Something's happened and you need to help me'. The message should have sent, but in her hurry to cooperate with the kidnapper, she didn't press the send button hard enough. Livia would've never gotten the message, and within a few days, Eva would've been dead. But luckily you have me."

Anderson rolled his eyes. "Yeah, lucky..."

"Anderson, shut it," Lestrade snapped. "You can go, your services aren't required. Sherlock, what do we need to do?"

Sherlock began to take off his gloves and put on his scarf and coat. "One, find out if there were any CCTV units that caught unusual activity within London or surrounding areas. Two, I am requesting this time that I do take the phone to interrogate Livia."

Lestrade nodded. "You'd take it anyway; go ahead. We'll look around London for any mysterious goings-on. Keep in contact, Sherlock."

As he left, he said over his shoulder, "I always do."

Sherlock paid the cabbie and climbed out in front of 221B, his head pounding with the information of the case and his heart racing out of excitement and adrenaline. He hadn't gotten any information out of John, but he was more focused on asking Livia about her sister and their "issue". He climbed up the stairs and through the flat's open door to see John sitting in his couch, reading the newspaper.

"Oh, John, good. Did you get anything? I was going to go and ask Livia a few things if she was awake," he said, taking off his coat and scarf and hanging them up.

John didn't turn around but gave a short laugh. "Oh, she's awake alright. But you may want to wait before you go and ask her anything." He turned and Sherlock saw the towel pressed to John's head.

"What? Why, what happened to you?" Sherlock went over to him and examined the wound. It was small, but recent. Suddenly there was a crash from inside Sherlock's room, followed by some shouting and a series of smaller crashes. "What's going on?"

John stood and winced in pain. "Livia's stuck in her nightmare. She believes we've kidnapped her and murdered her sister."

Sherlock's eyebrows furrowed as he pulled out Eva's phone. "I guess I shouldn't show her this, then. It's her sister's mobile. She's gone missing, and she needed Livia to help her... But I need to go talk to her..."

"I guess you could, but you need to calm her down first. And I don't think hitting her will do you any good here, Sherlock," John said as he followed Sherlock down the hall. As they reached the door, Sherlock unlocked it and tightened his grip around the knob. "Be careful, Sherlock. I don't know exactly how dangerous she is."

Sherlock nodded and slowly started to open the door. As he did, he peeked into the room. Livia was standing near the window, her back to him and her hand on the glass. He stepped into the room and let John look in through the open door. He examined the room, seeing most things on the floor and some things broken. He didn't really mind. Then, he cleared his throat.

She turned to him, her face full of fear but her eyes full of vehemence. Tear streaks ran down her face. "What do you want?" Her voice was quavering and sounded tortured. Whatever the nightmare had been, it had torn her apart.

"I want to help you, Livia," Sherlock said, trying as best he could to sound sympathetic. "Please, whatever happened inside your head, it's not true. Eva is still alive; John and I didn't kill her." He held his hands up. "I don't have any weapons, it's alright."

"You're lying!" she screamed at him, rushing towards him, but he stayed as still as a statue. "I saw you shoot her because I wouldn't give you information about Richard! Right in front of me." Her voice went down to a coarse whisper as she said, "I thought I could trust you. For a second. Because you helped me."

Sherlock felt something deep inside of him twinge, something strange. "I'm still here to help. Livia, you have to believe me. Please." He held out a hand to her, a sign of peace. She looked at him, tracing any hint of mistrust or deceit.

"How can I be so sure?" she glanced between him and John. "How do I know I'm not in my nightmare again?"

Sherlock slowly reached into his pocket, her eyes watching him warily. He drew out Eva's phone. "The police found this last night when you and I were talking. It's Eva's, am I correct?" She nodded, tears spilling over. "So tell me, Livia... How could I have killed your sister when I was sitting with you, talking about a serial stalker?"

Recognition flooded her face before she burst into tears. Sherlock crossed to her and placed his arms around her, soothing her as best he could. "We'll find her, but we'll need your help."

John watched, amazed by his best friend. But what touched more was Sherlock's caring manner towards this young girl, now crying softly for her sister in his arms.


	4. Chapter 4

Livia refused to go into details about what the nightmare had been. Sherlock respected this and set her up with a mug of tea and the telly while he and John cleaned up his room and talked about Eva's disappearance.

"She left intentionally, then. She knew if she didn't, worse things could happen for her and her family," John surmised, hanging Sherlock's clothes back in his closet.

"Precisely," he answered, lying down on his bed, his palms together and his eyes closed. "Now I just need to ask Livia a few questions about her brother. Whose name is Richard apparently."

John nodded. "Yeah, I meant to tell you that. She was saying his name over and over, but when I was going to text you, she woke up and panicked."

"Did she say anything else?"

"Not much, mostly just Richard and Eva's names." He thought for a second. "Oh and one other name. Moran. Familiar to you?"

Sherlock opened his eyes and frowned. "No...But I feel like I've heard it before..." He sat up from the bed and swung his legs over the side, his elbows resting on his knees and his hands clasped together. He sat there for a few seconds, contemplating, before he stood and straightened his jacket. "I suppose I'll go ask Livia a few questions while she still trusts me."

John chuckled. "Wise move."

Sherlock offered a small smile and walked out. Livia was curled up in the same chair as she had been the night before, sipping her tea and munching on biscuits again. She heard him stop behind her chair and motioned towards the telly.

"Two women were raped and murdered by three men, none of whom have been tracked down. This isn't the first time; they've done this twice before. Raped their victims senseless, shot them in the heart, then wrote an X on their foreheads and above their...erm..._sensitive_ areas." She turned towards him, a blush staining her cheeks. "And yet you help me, a girl who's been having nightmares. They're the ones you should be helping, Mr. Holmes."

He reached for the remote and switched off the telly. "They aren't living a nightmare everyday. Their torture ends at some point, even if not in the most pleasant of ways. They don't have to live the rest of their lives with the haunting memory of being raped and then murdered. You, on the other hand, will have these nightmarish memories for the rest of your life. So you tell me, who should I be helping?"

Her eyes met his. "Them. I don't deserve any of your help. My case can't get much worse." She turned back around and played with the corner of the blanket. He sat across from her. "Tell me, Mr. Holmes, do you feel any pity for those girls? Do you feel any pity for the girls that are _at risk_ of being killed? Anything?"

Sherlock's gaze remained fixed. "No. If you would like my honest opinion. While it is a tragedy that these girls are dying, it is the way of the world. When some people can't get what they want, they find extreme ways to ensure that they do. Unfortunately, this often includes murder, rape, assault, abductions..." Livia glanced at his coat pocket where Eva's phone was. "Ah good, you've caught on. I'm afraid her message never got to you, nor could we recover it." He leaned forward. "Livia, your sister was kidnapped last night."

Livia gasped, her hands going to her mouth as silent, crystal tears spilled over her eyelids. "No..."

Sherlock took the phone out of his pocket and handed it to her. "Only three pieces of evidence were found at the crime scene: her phone, her house keys, and a picture of Mila. The phone and the picture were found propped up against a streetlight, while the keys were just dropped near the street. From what I can tell, she left this as a message to you. The text she meant to send to you was to warn you that they had come for her, and the position of the phone was to help you find it when she sent this message, am I correct? You two had a system; you knew you were in danger all the time."

Livia wiped her eyes. "Yeah. After Richard's death, we knew something wasn't right. He had been acting sort of...strange for a few days leading up to his passing away. He said he had made a mistake, but he wouldn't tell us what it had been. Then, we got the call that there had been a fire, presumed to have been started by a candle in his living room. After that, my sister and I noticed details of the report that didn't fit. For one, he didn't own any candles, and second of all, there had been a broken window. He lived on the eighth floor of a building, so the police ignored our concerns. They presumed that the heat of the flames had blown it out.

"When I started getting weird messages, my sister and I came up with a system. If one of us was in trouble for snooping around, we would text each other 'Richard lives' and place our phones in an obvious place that ordinary people wouldn't notice. Presumably, we thought this would be a bush or a tree trunk or hidden somewhere sort of obvious." She grabbed a tissue from the box on the side table and wiped her nose. "I never thought we'd have to use it, though."

John had finally finished cleaning up Sherlock's bedroom and came out to join them. Meanwhile, Sherlock continued to ask questions of Livia. "And the picture?"

Livia shrugged, then quietly said, "Sentiment?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Of course. A mother's first thoughts when there is danger is towards her children." He stood and walked to the kitchen cabinets. "Right now, Lestrade is looking all over London for any evidence of your sister's disappearance. Until then, we need to get these nightmares of yours checked out." Before he spoke again, he slipped on three nicotine patches, loving the rush he got when the drugs rushed into his veins. "Now, Miss Parkes, you may want to get yourself ready. We'll be making a quick visit to St. Bart's."

An hour later, after Livia had showered, changed clothes, and adjusted her makeup, the three of them were hailing a cab and heading towards the hospital. When there, Sherlock directed them to the lab where he and John had first met. Already there was Molly Hooper, preparing a slide to go under the microscope. As Sherlock entered, she looked up and her eyes brightened.

"Oh, hello Sherlock, John," she said cheerily, then she saw Livia behind them. "Who's this, your new client?"

"Yes, this is Olivia Parkes," John introduced.

Livia gave a friendly smile and shook hands with Molly. "Pleasure to meet you, Miss..."

"Hooper. Molly Hooper. Pleasure's all mine," Molly replied, glancing quickly at Sherlock and offering him a small smile. He hadn't noticed however and went straight for the lab equipment.

"May we use the X-ray machine?" he asked, already setting it all up.

"Yeah, of course," Molly said, sitting back at her stool and researching her own little experiment.

Sherlock motioned for Livia to come to him. As she did, he turned to her. "I'll be needing Eva's phone, just for a few minutes." She hesitated, but nodded reluctantly and fished it out of her pocket. As she handed it to him, he gave her a small reassuring smile and twisted back to the machine. He went to the computer across from him and watched as the machine scanned the mobile.

"Aha! I was right," he exclaimed suddenly, making Livia and Molly jump.

"Right about what?" John asked, joining Sherlock and attracting Livia to his side.

Sherlock pointed to a small circular...something...inside the phone. "A listening device. Records and transmits everything it can hear within a two-metre radius."

Livia's forehead creased. "Eva would've told me if she put that in there, even if for safety measures. We told each other all our safety precautions, so that if one of us was in danger, we'd know exactly what went wrong and where and why."

"So it was put there by someone else... That's how they knew when to get her," Sherlock said, taking the phone out of the machine. "They listened as she and her husband talked about what groceries needed picking up and what store she'd go to. They knew everything about that night, that week, that month, possibly even that _year_."

Livia went to her cloak and pulled out her own phone. "Sherlock, do you think..."

He looked at her, then her phone. "Maybe... It's worth looking at."

She handed it to him, taking Eva's back, and watched as he went through the same motions. Soon enough, the image of her phone was on the screen. Sherlock examined it thoroughly.

"No, there's nothing in your device. You're not being listened to. I believe they have two different tactics for both of you. Eva was listened upon, and you, my dear, are being watched." He turned to Molly. "I don't believe anything else requires our attention. Thank you, Molly." Then he strode away and grabbed his coat and scarf, John following closely behind. Livia took her phone from the X-ray machine and examined it, thinking.

Molly looked to the door. "He seems more...caring."

Livia tucked her phone in her pocket and gazed at Molly. "Sorry?"

The girl at the microscope glanced at Livia. "Oh, nothing. He just doesn't seem to be himself. He never used to smile or double-check things."

"Double-check? What do you mean?" Livia walked to her cloak and pulled it on.

Molly looked to her experiment. "I could tell he knew the whole time that your phone wouldn't have a listening device. He knew you were specifically being _watched_, but for your sake, he checked. To set your mind at rest." She stared at Livia. "Whatever happened to you, it's put his mind on edge. He's making sure you trust him at all times. That's not Sherlock at all. He usually doesn't care if people trust him or not."

Livia could suddenly see the sadness in Molly's eyes. She opened her mouth to say something about it but was interrupted by the door opening behind her. She turned and saw Sherlock standing there, looking at her expectantly.

"Are you coming, Miss Parkes?"

Livia nodded and turned to smile at Molly. "Good day." Then she turned and walked through the door, grabbing Sherlock's arm and pulling him with her. There was one question going through her mind:

Had she changed him?


	5. Chapter 5

When the three of them got back to the flat, they all went off in separate directions. Sherlock went to his chair and started playing the violin ("It'll help me think."), not that Livia minded. He played beautifully. John went to his room to retrieve his laptop, and Livia sat on the couch under a shot-up smiley face on the wall. She pulled off her cloak and reached into the pocket for a cigarette. She lit up and closed her eyes, taking in everything that had happened. Her sister had been kidnapped, her dreams were being controlled, and it all had to do with the circumstances of Richard's death.

John came back down the stairs and set up his laptop on the desk facing Livia. He sat down and began to type quickly, becoming engrossed in his work. She watched them for a while, finishing off the last of her cig before feeling truly restless. Sherlock had his violin, John had his work, and Livia had her dancing, but she hadn't done it in so long. She had her shoes in her bag just in case, but she wondered if it would bother either of them, especially Sherlock.

She cleared her throat. "Erm, what do we do now?"

Sherlock stopped for a moment in his playing. "We wait. Sooner or later, either Lestrade or your stalker will get into contact with information or a threat."

"Oh. Well, do you mind if I practise a bit?" she asked, going to the chair across from Sherlock and searching for her shoes and looser clothing.

"Practise? Ah, yes, ballet. No, go right ahead. If it helps you." Sherlock replied, going back to playing a sad tune from Bach. She smiled and went to Sherlock's room to change. She came out again, dressed comfortably, and sat on the couch to slip on her shoes and tie them up. As she stood, she stretched, rotating her ankles to loosen them and bending down to touch her toes. Finally, she stood on her toes and did a few steps to Sherlock's music. She made sure she didn't step on anything or bump into furniture, and did small steps and moves. She went into fifth position, with her right foot forward, and dipped slightly into a demi-plié. Her right foot glided forward into a croisé and did a demi-rond de jambe en dehors to the side, while her left foot stayed in a plié. She did a small jump onto her right foot in demi-plié, then her left foot glided throughout first position into croisé forward. Her weight then transferred to her left foot and she made a slight jump to bring her feet together to where her left one had been placed. She finished in the fifth croisé.

Sherlock stopped playing then. "What was that move called?"

Livia blushed and said, "A pas de Basque. Usually I would repeat those steps a couple times, or go right into another set of steps."

He locked eyes with her. "It was...beautiful." John stopped what he was doing and looked to him. Livia looked surprised.

"Oh, erm, thank you." Her mouth turned up at the corners, giving Sherlock a small, sweet smile.

"Would you like me to keep playing? It seemed it was helping you," he offered.

She nodded and laughed. "Yes, if you don't mind. Surprise me." His eyes twinkled with curiosity for this girl, and he felt a twinge deep within him. It scared him, at least for a second, but he ignored it and started playing "Spring" by Antonio Vivaldi.

She smiled and started dancing, fluid and graceful. John and Sherlock watched her, spellbound. Sherlock was smiling and encouraging her as she danced, happier at that moment than he had been in a long time. John glanced at him and wondered for a second... Was Livia awakening something in him?

She began to do what was known as "The Fred Step", a signature move of the late choreographer Sir Frederick Ashton. It was comprised of a first arabesque, followed by a développé, a pas de bourrée, and then finished with a pas de chat. She danced for what seemed like hours, but Sherlock knew it had only been ten minutes. As she finished and the song ended, John burst into applause. Sherlock put down his violin and joined him, causing a blush to bloom into Livia's pale cheeks.

"That was wonderful!" John admired. "You were splendid."

"Thank you, Mr. Watson," Livia said, sitting to untie her shoes. She felt that she had practised enough for one day, and she didn't want to disturb Sherlock's thinking.

"John, call me John." He smiled, and turned back to his work, still amazed at her graceful ability.

She laughed lightly. "Alright then, John." She tucked her shoes into her bag and took her other clothes out. "If you don't mind, I'd like to go shower." She looked to Sherlock, his greyish blue eyes piercing hers. "Thank you very much, Mr. Holmes. The music was lovely, and I very much appreciate it."

Then she did something none of them expected, not even Livia herself. She bent down, and she kissed his cheek. It was just a peck, but it filled his mind, every crevice of it, with an emotion he didn't recognise. She pulled away, giving him a brilliant smile, and, feeling on air herself, walked to the bathroom that connected to his room. John looked at Sherlock questioningly, wanting to smile but not knowing how he would react.

"What just happened?" he asked. Sherlock's eyes were still fixated on the spot Livia had just occupied. "Sherlock?"

"I'm... I'm not sure..." he answered faintly. John shook his head and continued his work, although he couldn't focus very well now. He was slightly worried about Sherlock, as the only other person that had done that was someone whom Sherlock had said never to speak about again. The Woman, Irene Adler.

Livia started the shower and scrubbed her body until it was rubbed raw and red. She washed her hair twice until it was silky smooth and shaved her legs until they were flawless. She didn't know why she was being so meticulous with her washing; she just felt the need to do it. When she stepped out, she dried herself completely and massaged lotion into her body, feeling the soothing touch of aloe and Shea butter and relaxing into it. She dressed quickly and dried her hair as best she could before gathering her things and opening the bathroom door.

Standing there was the men of her nightmares, the man who always seemed to plan the murders of her friends and family.

Sebastian Moran.

He was dressed in black jeans, a tight-fitting black T-shirt that defined all the muscles of his body, and a dark coat that would protect him from the London cold. She could tell that in an inside pocket of his jacket, he had a gun. But he looked handsome, as always. His dark hair had recently been cut, close to the head on the sides and slowly getting longer until it reached the top of his head, where he swept the front of it back and up for a more jagged, rough look. Accenting his rough look was the scruff of an unshaved face. His intense blue eyes burned into hers, making her want to run and hide as fast as she could. Livia tried to close the door to the bathroom again, but he stopped it with his foot and chuckled darkly. She could hear the violin playing again in the next room. Sherlock wouldn't be able to hear them talking.

"Well, my dear. You certainly got prettier since I last saw you," he teased, taking her arm and pulling her roughly into Sherlock's room. She was about to call for help, but his gun was already out and he hit her forcefully over the head. She went limp in his arms, her consciousness already slipping away. She couldn't form words, and before she knew it, he was gagging her, tying her hands together, and carrying her out the open window to a fate she didn't want to acknowledge. The last thing she saw was a black car with an open door in an alleyway before the darkness swallowed her and she blacked out.

Sherlock sat thinking, his violin soothing him. Livia had kissed his cheek. The only other person to do that was Irene. Anger and hurt rushed through him, but it passed quickly and he focused on the girl with the nightmares. Sherlock had never thought of a girl in the way that he did Livia, not even Irene. He was married to his work, after all. He hadn't felt the need to. Sure, he had worked with a dozen or two of beautiful women, but Livia was different. She was vulnerable, delicate even. He felt the desirable need to protect her and have her trust him. When he had first met her, he knew there was something different about her. Of course the nightmares set her apart, but what really made her special was the fact that she was so mysterious. She had an allure about her that drew Sherlock in the way a dangerous case might. She gave him a feeling he couldn't describe. So he asked John.

"John, what's a feeling you can't describe?" Sherlock asked suddenly.

John laughed. "Erm, well there's sadness, happiness, love—"

"Love."

He turned to Sherlock. "Yeah, love. You know the denotation of the word, right?"

Sherlock looked to him. "Of course."

"Think of the connotation of the word. Does anything come to mind?"

Sherlock thought for a moment. "Cases, serial killers, mysterious circumstances..." He paused. "Livia."

John chuckled. "Nice to know Livia's in the same category as a serial killer." He stopped. "Wait, you said 'Livia', Sherlock..." They locked eyes. "Do you love her?"

Sherlock sighed and looked at the ceiling. "I don't know, I've never felt the emotion. Not to mention I've only known her a day and a half. Right now, I see her as I see you: a true friend. She just has this...aura about her that makes me want to be with her, and I don't know in what way."

John gripped his friend's shoulder comfortingly. "You'll figure it out. You're the world's only consulting detective, after all." He turned back to his laptop before he realised something. Livia hadn't come out of Sherlock's room yet, and it had been well over half an hour. "I'm going to go check on her, actually. Unless you would like to..."

"No, go ahead. I'm going to try calling Lestrade to see if he's found anything." Sherlock stood and walked to the window, dialing the DI's number. John walked to Sherlock's room, glancing at the mantle clock. 5:12 in the afternoon. Maybe he and Sherlock would take Livia to the café next door for something to eat. The water had stopped running in the bathroom, but there was no sound of anyone in the bedroom. He knocked on the door.

"Livia? Are you alright?" When he got no response, John opened the door. "Livia?" He looked around everywhere, but she wasn't anywhere. Then he noticed the open window. "Shit! Sherlock!"

Sherlock ran into the room, of course noticing the open window immediately. His eyes went wide. "Dammit! We should have kept closer surveillance on her..."

As he looked out the window, John scoffed. "Yeah? Should we have watched her as she showered? Come on, Sherlock; use that massive intellect of yours!"

Sherlock paced and placed his fingertips to his temples. "Alright, I need to contact Lestrade and tell him to track any car that left the alley. I need you, in the meantime, to look up any information on the name 'Moran'. There's got to be some connection to him." He pulled out his mobile and was starting to dial the inspector's number when he realised John hadn't moved yet. "What is it?"

John shuffled, uncomfortable. "Well...how do we know she didn't leave willingly, like Eva?"

Sherlock walked to John until there was only about a couple of inches between them. "Even if she did, she is our client and she is in danger. I promised her I'd help her, and I'll be damned if she dies because of my ignorance."

John had never heard him sound so calmly livid; it sent a slight shiver through him. Without another word, he nodded and walked past him to his laptop to look up their mystery man. The consulting detective continued to dial Lestrade's number, his hands shaking. His mind was racing, deductions clouding his thoughts, voices from the past chastising him, Livia's voice accusing him. It was almost all too much, if it hadn't been the sudden brush on his cheek as he remembered Livia's kiss, her thanks for the beautiful music he had played to match her graceful dancing.

Suddenly, Lestrade's voice sounded in his ear, silencing everything else. "I thought you preferred to text? We haven't found Eva, if that's what you're going to ask."

"Actually, I want you to stop looking for Eva. Your new goal is to find and follow any car that has left the alleys near Baker Street."

"Jesus, Sherlock, what am I? Your serving dog?" He was angry, no surprise.

"Livia's been kidnapped, Detective! She was taken under our noses, out the window of my bedroom, straight out to the alley and into a car," Sherlock said.

"Your _bedroom_?" the DI asked, practically laughing.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Oh come off it. Track that car and you'll be led to Eva and Livia." There was a pause. "Please. For me."

Sherlock had never said that before. Something was different, Lestrade could tell. He sounded more...desperate. He sighed, and Sherlock could hear him faintly swearing. "Alright, fine. But you owe me!" Then the line went dead.

"Thank you," Sherlock whispered as he dropped the phone into his pocket, clearing his mind and turning to leave the bedroom. John had to have found _something_ by now.

And indeed he had. As Sherlock entered the room, John motioned him over. "Got it. Sebastian Moran, twenty-six years old. He was a soldier in the war, was stationed in Afghanistan. I wonder what part..." he trailed off distractedly.

"John! Focus!"

"Right sorry, erm... He's very experienced in using a gun, saved his whole legion by shooting down an enemy helicopter and won an award for it. Featured in the newspaper and everything. Called a hero. So he's a genius like you and Moriarty, but in a completely different way. A war kind of way." Then he clicked on images. "Oh no... Sherlock—"

But Sherlock could already see the picture. Standing there was a man with short, dark hair and blazing blue eyes. Beside him stood a man whose name appeared everywhere in every case Sherlock had ever taken.

James Moriarty.


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six

Livia's head hurt. Actually, everything hurt. Her head, her neck, her back, her arms... She lifted her head and tried to open her eyes, but the light of the room was too bright. She noticed her hands were chained above her head to a rough wall behind her, the thick metal digging into her wrists and already causing blood to appear. She was sitting on a very dirty floor, from what she could feel, with her legs tucked next to her. In her mouth, she could taste a grimy cloth that tied around her head: a gag.

Finally, she was able to open her eyes. The first thing she registered was how small and filthy the room was. It couldn't have been more than a couple metres wide and maybe that same length. The walls were covered in a hideous wallpaper that was shredding and peeling in multiple areas, and the floor wasn't much better. It was wood, scratched and splintered, covered in dust, dirt, and what looked to her as dried blood.

A shiver crept down Livia's spine as a cold overtook her. She was terrified. Then a thought crossed her mind. What if this was all a nightmare? It seemed logical enough. She could be back in Sherlock and John's flat, sleeping in the armchair, waiting for a call from Lestrade—

"Livia, sweetheart, you're not in a nightmare, if that's what you're thinking," a voice said kindly next to her. She looked over and almost started crying of relief when she saw Eva. She was also chained up to the wall, although it looked like they had already begun hurting her. There was a long cut on her forehead and several burn marks along her left arm and exposed stomach. Bruises adorned her body, covering every part of her. She was cowering, Livia realised. Her sister had always been so strong, and yet now she looked frightened of every little movement. Livia could only imagine the pain she was in.

Eva shook her head slightly. "I knew that'd be your first thought. But you have to trust me; this is all real." Livia of course believed her, but her mind couldn't function properly with her mouth, so she just nodded. Eva gave a half-smile. "You probably can't talk, either. He did that on purpose. Not sure why, but he did. I can't tell you where we are, but I can bet you'll have already figured out who's taken us." There was a long pause as Eva looked down. "I went willingly, when they came. Big brute I'd never seen before told me I had a debt to pay. I left my phone for you; I hoped the message had sent. I never checked. They killed him as soon as I was 'delivered'... I was hoping they'd never find you, that you'd be able to get away to some other country." She laughed bitterly. "But he's got men in every nook and cranny of the world. It was only a matter of time."

Suddenly, a door in the corner of the room opened, slamming against the wall behind it. In walked a man dressed to the nines, a black suit complete with a pair of black dress does, white shirt, red tie, and ruby tiepin. His dark hair was slicked back, and his eyes were downcast as he walked into the room.

"Sorry to keep you waiting. I thought you'd want some alone time with sister dearest." His eyes met hers, a pale golden brown that were cold and hard. "But I think you've had enough play time. It's time for a game of my own."

He walked to her and untied the gag, leaning in close and brushing her ear with his lips. When he pulled away, he grazed her cheek with a lingering finger. She could feel a shiver sliver down her vertebrae, but she kept her composure and looked him dead in his frozen, dead eyes. James Moriarty may be a man with a lot of power, but she would be damned if she let her fear show through to him.

He smiled and turned to walk around the room, handing the gag to a man standing outside the door, armed with a large gun. "You have a debt to be paid."

Her eyebrows furrowed, carefully forming the words she wanted to say before she spat at him, "What do you want? I don't have debts from you."

James chuckled lightly. "No, I suppose you don't... But poor Richard did. Poor Richard Parkes. Had a great life at one time. Nice flat downtown, beautiful girlfriend named Abigail Miller, and a dream job as a banker. What could go wrong?" He stopped, facing the opposite wall and letting the tension build. "How about we introduce Mr. Peter Boyd, a stock broker. Abigail fancied him, more than that if I remember correctly, but oh did she love how Richard lavished her. So she started to sneak around, carefully seeing Peter while still being Rich's girlfriend.

"Unfortunately, Rich found out through the grapevine, and boy was he mad! So he found me, the consulting criminal, to track down this guy and...take care of him." James smiled here. "Well we found him, but it turns out pretty Abby was there, too! She refused to leave so..." His eyes got darker, and Livia's insides turned cold. "You figure out the rest."

Livia's eyes went wide. Now everything leading up to Richard's death made sense. The sudden break-up with Abby, the depression, the paranoid look in his eyes, the cut-off contact...

As she pieced everything together, James watched her with a growing smile and a light laugh. "Good. You've figured it all out. Now for the grand finale, Part Two! The death of Richard Klein Parkes!" He spun with wide-open arms as he said it, enjoying himself. "Well, well, well. He wasn't expecting his true love to die. And he definitely didn't expect to be charged for it. Oh no, not criminally, we always make sure it's clean. No..." He was pacing the room again, his hands clasped behind his back. "See, now there's an extra body we didn't anticipate. There's a cost to come with that." He stopped in front of Livia. "Rich tried to explain himself. He had spent his life savings on this. He didn't have the money, so he tried to broker a deal with me. 'Give me a couple months,' he said, 'just until I can work something out.' Well, two months passed. He still didn't have the money. I warned him, told him this was his last chance. If he didn't have it within the week, I'd burn it out of him." Livia gasped, and Moriarty laughed. "So of course, I kept my promise. You were right in thinking that the fire wasn't an accident. Amazing what a little spark plug next to a curtain can do. Put a little candle in there and the police will believe it was an accident. Oh but you two knew, and Rich was broke." He chuckled. "How ironic, his name. Anyhow, I still needed my payment. I think you two will be able to help me there."

Eva rolled her eyes. "And torturing us is paying a debt? How is that even possible?"

Moriarty turned to her and leaned in until their faces were practically touching. "The satisfaction of torturing the likes of you is enough for me, and it stops any meddling you could do."

"Scared you'll get caught, Jim?" Livia laughed, not being able to stop herself. James stood and straightened his tie, his eyes looking over Livia.

"Seb! I think it's time we taught this little one how to control her mouth." He smiled cruelly at her. "Sorry, I don't like to get my hands dirty. I'm more of an audience member than a performer. But I'm sure you'll do a great job for me. I hear this show's a real...screamer."

Sebastian walked in, keys in his hands and the door closing behind him. He unlocked her chains, grabbing her roughly and standing her up. Her legs were sore and she could hardly stand, but she didn't need to for long. As soon as she could manage on her own, Sebastian slapped her, harder than Sherlock had. She let out a small cry but refused to give Moriarty the satisfaction of hearing her scream.

As she sat on the ground, she said, "Well, I guess I'll just have to get used to men hitting me. Shouldn't be too hard." Her eyes met Moran's, then flickered to Moriarty's, challenging him. "You can't break me."

He rolled his eyes and sighed. "Oh honey, you haven't seen the worst of it yet."

Livia gritted her teeth as she tried to tug her hands out of the cuffs, feeling the blood seeping from the deep cuts she had previously made and rolling down her arms. She must have reopened those wounds a million times by now, and still she tried everyday to free herself. It had been a few days since her captivity, although she couldn't tell exactly how many. Everything had started to blend together in her little room. For all she knew, it could have been a week or two. Moriarty had tried desperately to break her, having Sebastian hit her, slap her, kick her, cut her, and even burn her. She knew she was barely hanging on; it was only a matter of time before she would give in. James seemed to know it, too. He insisted that Seb be her predominant persecutor, while Eva was tortured by various other men who came and went like the moon.

Oh how Livia missed the moon, the sky, the world. Here in this little cell of hers, she was alone with her pain. There was no such thing as comfort, no such thing as help. She had almost completely given up hope that Sherlock would find her in time, but there was a little flicker in her heart that told her to never lose hold of that reverie. Sherlock would find her; he was the world's only consulting detective, after all.

Livia rated her pain by what colour she saw when she was inflicted. For example, orange was "grit-her-teeth-and-live-with-it" kind of pain. White, which she had only experienced once, was the kind of pain that made her lose consciousness, enough to knock her out for a day or two.

Moriarty burst into the room once again, eyeing Livia with distaste. "Ever the struggler, I see. Maybe we should try to fix that." He motioned towards Sebastian, standing next to him, and looking to Eva.

Eva was broken. There was no denying it. She flinched away from the simplest movement and often blocked out everything and everyone. She didn't reply to Livia anymore, opting to whimper and cry instead. Her dark hair hung limp around her face, and her once-beautiful green eyes were empty and wintry. The Eva Livia had once known was gone now, and she wondered if she would ever return.

"I think Eva's been tortured enough, haven't you, honey?" He laughed as she lowered her head and began to cry softly. "Maybe not..."

Her head snapped up and she started yelling, panicked. "No! No, I've suffered, please just stop, please!"

Livia wanted to shut her out, curl up in a ball and just hide in the corner, block out the world. "Moriarty! Enough, she's done! You've shattered her, just leave her alone!" Her eyes met his and her voice became lethal. "Do what you want with me, but don't you ever touch her again."

Something in his eyes changed, but his expression remained as stoic as before with a slight smirk growing. "Well someone's still got a lot of courage. As I said before my dear—" He leaned in closer to her. "—we will break you of that. Moran."

Sebastian stepped up to Livia and unlocked her. There was a bright pain, what she saw as a light orange, that raced down her arms, but she closed her eyes for a second and brushed the pain away before she faced Seb.

"What's it going to be today, hmm? Burning?" She showed him her arms, covered with bruises, cuts, and burn marks from the red-hot metal he would press to her skin. "There's nothing left for you to do that I haven't already seen. Do your worst."

He raised an eyebrow before dragging her to her feet. She stood shakily before her legs gave out, her palms hitting the floor forcefully. The pain was a mild yellow. He pulled her by the hair and forced her to her knees. With a glance at Moriarty, Seb gave a mocking half-smile. "No, we have something different planned for today, specifically designed for you, love." Then he touched his right hand to his ear and said into the earpiece, "We're ready to go. Start the sequence whenever." Then he focused his attention to Livia. "I do hope you have a nice nap, Miss Parkes."

Livia eyes were forced closed as a painful headache hit her. Recognising what was happening, she fought to stay awake as a soporific feeling overtook her mind and body. Sebastian only darkly chuckled as he chained her back up, kissing her forehead as he stepped back. "Sweet dreams, love."

Then the world went dark as she drifted off unwillingly to greet a nightmare.

Livia stirred and turned over in bed, the sun's rays a not so welcome greeting to her closed eyes. With a start, she realised that she was in a bed, not on some grimy floor. Sitting up quickly, she looked around the room. She was in Sherlock's room, under his duvet wearing a flimsy slip she didn't recognise at first, then understood that it had been a gift from Eleanor for her birthday last year. Why was she wearing it?

"Good morning," a deep baritone voice sounded next to her. She yelped and leapt out of the bed, trying to cover herself as best she could in front of Sherlock. He was now sitting up, his eyes a mix of confusion and...Was that hurt? His dark hair was a complete mess, and he was without a shirt, revealing his pale but well-sculpted body. "What is it, Livia? Is something wrong?"

She didn't have an answer for him right away. There was something in the way that he had asked her that made her stop and think. What had happened? The last thing she remembered was being tortured in Moriarty's presence and then...what?

"I...erm...I don't know. I had a dream about being tortured...," she stammered as the memories faded, her brows furrowed. Sherlock got out of the bed (thank God he was wearing pants) and walked over to her, smiling slightly. He wrapped his arms around her in a loving embrace.

"Dr. Taylor said it'd take a while to recover from the memories. You just have to focus on the future, and remember," he pointed her face towards his, "I'll always be here for you." His eyes spoke for him, a deep love in the light blue that she could melt into. Without another word, he pulled her close, leaned down, and kissed her deeply and tenderly. She felt light-headed, the connection between them like fireworks. Her hand moved to the side of his face as she returned the kiss with just as much lust as he had.

Livia forgot every feeling of fear she had had moments ago and thought to herself, _"Right. I just need to forget everything."_

Sherlock kissed her cheek once more before going to the bathroom and starting the shower. Livia, meanwhile, changed into her most comfortable clothing and applied a light coat of makeup before grabbing her ballet things and going down the hall for breakfast. John was at the stove, and she noticed that the kitchen was cleaner than she had ever seen it. He turned and smiled at her.

"Good morning, Livia. Cuppa?" he asked. She nodded and went to the pantry to look for her breakfast bars. "Spent the night, I presume?"

A blush blossomed upon her cheeks as she bit back a grin. "Yeah." John could see her fighting a wide smile, so he just chuckled lightly and turned back to the boiling water. Livia set her things on the table and leaned against the countertop, munching on her bar. John handed her a mug and took his own into his hands, also leaning on the counter.

"So what are your plans for today?" she asked.

He took a sip of his coffee. "I have to go into the surgery today, and then I have a date tonight with a charming girl named Allison."

"Oooh," Livia laughed, "Johnny's got himself a date!"

John smiled. "Yeah, I have a good feeling about her. She's everything that the other girl's I've dated have been missing. She's...fantastic."

Livia was happy for John. Every girl he'd dated just hadn't been what he was looking for. It'd be nice for him to finally find someone to settle down with. She glanced at the clock and set down her coffee.

"Tell Sherlock I've left, will you?" she asked, putting on her coat and gathering her things. John nodded and said goodbye as she rushed through the door and down the stairs. From the back of her mind, Livia had remembered that she ran a ballet studio only a few blocks away. Opting to walk in the biting cold air, she began her fifteen-minute walk to her studio, _Miss Olivia's Little Birds_. About a month after her release from Moriarty, she decided to open the studio so she could teach young girls (and a few little boys) to dance, as her sister had taught her.

Something flickered in the back of her mind. Her sister... Did she even have a sister? All she could remember was... She stopped in the middle of the sidewalk and tried to focus. People walked by her and stared, but she ignored them. She remembered being taken to the "base"...she remembered being tortured...and then she was back home. But why did she feel like there were holes in her memory? She continued to walk along, but all she could focus on was how she couldn't remember anything.

Suddenly Livia was standing in front of her class, fifteen girls and one lone boy. She didn't remember walking in or getting changed or even saying good morning. They were doing their exercises, stretching and practising plies, arabesques, and other such moves. She blinked and tried to think. The holes in her memory were becoming more and more bothersome as the time went on. Finally, she sighed and cleared her mind. She needed to focus on her students.

"Okay class, now we're going to go into first position..."

Before she knew it, Livia was climbing the stairs to Sherlock's flat. At first she was confused. How did she get home so quickly? But when she walked through the door, she couldn't help but smile. Sherlock was standing at the window, reading a file. He looked so peaceful, so happy to be doing what he was. He looked up at her and gave her his signature half-smile.

"Afternoon," he said as she crossed the room and pecked him on the cheek. He wrapped an arm around her and pulled her close. She rested her head against him and inhaled deeply, happy to be with him.

"Hello, love. Any plans for dinner, or shall we have to call for take-away?" she asked, toying with the buttons on his sleeve as his arm draped over her.

"None at all; I say we get take-away and watch a film on the telly. I hear James Bond is on tonight," he replied, putting down his file and wrapping both of his arms around her waist. Her head leaned against him as she turned and snuck in a quick, lingering kiss.

"That sounds lovely," Livia purred, and she intertwined her fingers with his. He gave a short chuckle and nuzzled her neck before moving to the couch and sitting her down on his lap. She settled against him and rested her head on his shoulder, trailing kisses along his jaw. He ran his hand along her arm, thinking about his case no doubt.

After a moment, Livia spoke. "Sherlock, has today seemed to go by quickly to you? At all?"

He shook his head. "Not in the slightest. Today was relatively boring without you, my dear." She froze. _My dear_. There was something in the way he said it that alarmed her.

Livia scrambled from Sherlock's lap, shaking. He looked at her the same way he had that morning. "My dear, what is it?"

A single frightened tear slipped down her cheek. "Why do you keep saying that?" she nearly shouted. "You've never said that before, and the only other people to say that were..."

There it was again. That gap in her memory, that terrible hole that made her want to tear her hair out. She covered her face with her hands, shutting out everything else to try to retrieve her memories. She had been in a run-down house, being tortured... Frustration coursed through her veins, her blood boiling and her head pounding.

"Livia?" Sherlock asked lightly, reaching for her, but she jerked away at his touch. As she looked at him, she saw not Sherlock, but Moriarty.

"Don't you dare touch me," she said quietly as she stepped away from him, venom coating her voice. "Don't _ever_ come near me. You tortured me until I was near _death_."

Moriarty's eyes darkened and his jaw twitched with fury. He took a few steps toward her, not kindly. "I would mind yourself, my dear, before you hurt yourself or even others."

Without a second thought, Livia turned and ran as fast as she could down the stairs and out of the flat. She didn't know where to go, but she could hear Moriarty coming for her. Who knew what would happen if she was caught? Then she saw an officer, monitoring across the street. Without looking, she sprinted towards him, nearly getting herself run over twice in the process of doing so. Behind her, James was briskly following her, as the crosswalk light had changed.

She grabbed the arm of the officer, desperation in her voice as she pleaded to him. "Please, you have to help me. That man—" she pointed to him. "—is trying to kill me! You have to believe me!"

By now, James had gotten to her and had taken her arm roughly. He smiled kindly at the officer. "Don't mind her. Schizophrenic, she is. Forgot to take her medication this morning. Not right in the head. Thank you for finding her for me."

The officer nodded at James and smiled, walking away and taking Livia's last glimpse of hope with him. Moriarty gripped Livia's shoulder, but before she could pull away, something cold and metal was placed to the small of her back. Hidden in Moriarty's grip was a small revolver, now ready to be fired. His lips went to her ear. "If you try to run away, I won't be afraid to pull the trigger."

"Where's Sherlock?" she whispered, afraid to hear the truth.

He chuckled as a car pulled up, forcing her in. She could see Sebastian driving, his eyes shrouded by slick aviator sunglasses. A smug smile played with his lips.

"I wouldn't worry about Sherlock, honey," James purred as he sat next to her. He was so close to her, his breath tickling her ear and sending a shiver down her spine. "We have plans for him."

Tears slipped from Livia's eyes, but she didn't dare utter a sound, keeping her expression and emotions as matte as possible.

She had no idea where they had driven, nor how long it had been. She had fallen asleep after a few minutes and woke up with her head on Jim's shoulder. Blushing, she smarted herself and tried to scoot slowly away, but he noticed and pressed the gun into her side with more force. She resisted crying out, though she closed her eyes and breathed deeply through her nose to escape the pain.

After another fifteen or so, they stopped outside an apartment close to the centre of London. White brick stone, dark front door, and flowerboxes. No one would suspect a thing.

As they stepped out, James held her close to him and said, "Honey, we're home..." Then he chortled darkly. They walked inside and immediately led Livia upstairs to a dark, dirty room that she immediately recognised as the room she had been tortured in. She was pushed into a rickety wooden chair and had her hands tied behind her to one of the back rungs. As Seb tied her down, James placed the barrel of the gun to her forehead. Her pulse jumped and her breath quickened, but she refused to cry or break down. She stared at his cold brown eyes with such hatred, but he only smiled and brushed her hair out of her face.

"It would be a waste to harm such a beautiful face," he said, taking Livia's chin and tilting her face to each side, "so we won't dare touch it. Besides, you're not here so we can hurt you in any physical way. No, quite the opposite actually. I think it's time we put things to a more..._emotional _level." He sneered at her and dropped his hand as he nodded to Sebastian.

Seb disappeared from the room quickly and quietly, not even glancing at Livia. She glared at his back, hoping he would feel the burn of her gaze and feel at least something. _Anything_. James' finger rested precariously on the trigger of the gun, although he seemed less inclined to actually pull it. Livia was shaking, she realised. Taking a few deep breaths and closing her eyes, she tried to calm herself as best she could without thinking about what they could possibly have in store for her.

As if on cue, there was shouting heard from the hallway. Moriarty glanced at the door and smiled at her. "Oh good, they've arrived." People entered the room, but she refused to open her eyes. "Livia, be a good girl and say hello to our guests.

She unwillingly opened her eyes and immediately wished she hadn't. "Sherlock!"

Standing a metre behind Moriarty with his hands handcuffed behind him was Sherlock with two men standing next to him with their hands on his shoulders and arms. He had a large cut on his cheek and forehead, but other than that, he looked unharmed. He wore a black button-up shirt and black trousers, and there was rip in the left leg of them right below the knee. His eyes met hers and she couldn't help but give him the smallest of half-smiles. He returned it for a split-second before Moriarty stepped away from Livia and lowered his gun, placing it in his pocket.

"Hello," Livia said to Sherlock quietly, tears forming in her eyes, but she pushed them back and tried to stay strong. "So sorry we had to meet like this."

"Likewise, love. How were the children for you today?" he asked, a smile tugging on the corner of his mouth.

She couldn't help but smile. Idle chatter in the face of Death. That was so like him. "Absolutely wonderful. Such angels. Although Hallie was quite terrible, per usual."

Moriarty groaned. "Oh God. You two are unbearable. Too much lovey dovey, don't you agree, Seb?" His hitman nodded. "But that won't be a problem for long. I've tried to break you before, Miss Parkes, but you had too much will power. I couldn't figure out how to do it, but I knew I had to in order to be fully satisfied." He had started pacing around the room, his hands in the pockets of his Westwood trousers. "I thought Sherlock would be my biggest problem, but I was misunderstood. Now I know my true threat." He stopped in front of her and leaned down as if to kiss her. "You."

Livia stared at him incredulously. "Me?"

Sherlock smirked. "Yes, of course. You can take out two birds with one stone."

Moriarty turned to him and nodded. "Good, you've caught on. If I kill you, I rid the world of you, and," he smiled at Livia, "I break you."

Livia could feel the panic in her chest, her heart beating faster and faster as her breath became ragged and forced. "No, please, I beg of you, don't kill him!"

James' eyes were dancing with glee as he took the gun out of his pocket. "Put Sherlock on his knees. I want him to know he's below me now, quite literally."

Roughly, the two men holding him forced him down and stood back. Sebastian stood to one side of the room, watching the scene unfold with an emotion Livia could only place as disgust. James circled Sherlock with the gun pointed at his head, mocking them.

"I can't decide how I want to do this, but I want to savor this moment... Should we shoot you somewhere that will inflict more pain, or shall I end it all quickly and get it over with? The more pain you're in, the happier I'd be... I know!" He leaned in closely to Sherlock. "Why don't we let you choose? Or should we let poor little Miss Livia Parkes choose?" He walked to her again and forced her to look at him by roughly grabbing her face. "I think that'd be much more suitable, don't you think, Sherly dear? Having your little _girlfriend_ choose which way to kill you?"

Livia didn't bother stopping the tears that formed waterfalls down her bright cheeks. "No, no I won't! You can't make me choose, please just stop!"

"Jim." The voice had come from Seb, arms crossed and a stern look in his eyes. "Stop playing games. You'll have plenty of time for those later. Let him choose and get it over with."

Moriarty mulled it over in his head before nodding. "Alright then. Sherlock, you have thirty seconds. And I'll be counting." Then he walked towards Sebastian and watched the two of them.

Wasting no time, Sherlock spoke to her. "Are you alright?" When she nodded, he continued. "Good. Livia, whatever happens, I want you to know that I—" he paused, "I love you and I always will. I don't want you to watch me suffer—"

"And I don't want you to suffer," Livia said, her voice and body shaking. "Sherlock _please_ there has to be something you can do, something anyone can do! I don't want to lose you!"

Ignoring her to hide his pain, Sherlock said, "I'm going to end it quickly. Livia, you have to remain strong, don't let Moriarty break you. Don't _ever_ let him break you. You are the best thing that has ever happened to me, and I don't want to see you fall to pieces."

"Sherlock!" Livia fought her bonds and locked eyes with him as she stopped, knowing it was useless. "Please!"

Moriarty stepped forward, eyes gleaming and a malevolent smile plastered to his face. "Time's up, kiddies! Dear Sherlock Holmes, what have you chosen?"

Sherlock never broke his gaze with Livia, but his voice shook as he spoke. "A bullet to the head please. Side of the head, if you don't mind. I don't want Livia to see the wound."

"Oh come on, Sherly! Can't I at least shoot you through the forehead?" Moriarty whined, as if he were a child asking for a certain kind of treat. Livia whimpered and glanced at Seb. He was watching the scene again, his eyes glistening with disapproval, although he did nothing to stop his superior.

Sherlock broke his eye contact with Livia for a moment to look at James. "Can't you let a dying man have one final request?"

"Play nice, James," Seb's cool voice called again. Why was he being so...fair?

Moriarty rolled his eyes and placed the barrel of the pistol to the crown of Sherlock's head. "Fine then. Say goodnight Sherlock Holmes."

Livia started screaming then. "No, please! Stop, you don't have to do this!" Sherlock's eyes never broke from hers. She could see the terror in them, the terrible fright that he managed to keep from showing. When a few tears managed to slip down his cheeks, he said to Livia, "I'm so sorry. I love you."

Livia nearly choked on her words. "And I you."

Time slowed. She saw Moriarty pull the trigger, heard the shot fire, and heard the strangled scream that broke from her lips as Sherlock's eyes closed. She felt the tears streaming down her face as he fell, saw Sherlock's blood gathering in a pool on the floor. She went limp in her bonds as she stared at her love's lifeless body, crying uncontrollably and feeling herself slip away. She was breaking.

Moriarty looked at the body with pleasure, twirling the gun in his hand. "There's a certain satisfaction in knowing that I've finally won." He looked to her. "Emotions are a strong thing, honey. Love and hate, the strongest of all of them. Take away something or someone that a person loves...that person is never going to be able to fix themselves. Take away someone or something that a person hates... Well that person's going to be like a child on Christmas, my dear."

Livia could feel herself sliding from reality. The tears had stopped, and the world had become abstract. Numbness overtook her body and emotions. She didn't even feel the slightest bit of hate for Moriarty. She had let Sherlock down. She had broken.

She didn't notice Sebastian walking to her until she felt him untying her bonds. Moriarty glared at him. "What do you think you're doing, Seb?"

"Unlike you, I have a little compassion in my heart. I'm letting her have a few minutes with Sherlock, alright? If you have a problem with it, kill me. You had your way. She's broken, now let her have a moment of mourning."

James closed his eyes and sighed, his whole body tensed. He rotated his neck a little, then nodded. "Fine. Have it your way. But she only gets two minutes."

Seb's jaw clenched. "Five. Give her five minutes, Jim. No more, no less."

James' nostrils flared in anger, but he nodded. Seb finished untying her and took the ropes away, but she made no movement towards Sherlock's body. Sighing, Seb lightly took her hand and gently pulled her towards Sherlock. She followed, but there was a lifelessness to her that Sebastian hated. He let her go as she knelt next to him, backing away to the wall behind them and nodding for the two men to leave. They did.

Livia's eyes traced over every feature of Sherlock, of the man she loved. His lips were slightly parted with a trickle of blood from one corner. She refused to look at the wound, averting her eyes from it and instead keeping her eyes on his closed ones. She took his cold hand into hers and held it to her lips. She closed her eyes and sat there, taking in all that he was. After a minute, she started talking.

"You were so clever, you know... The cleverest. You knew everything about a person in a glance. No one could have been better. Not even James Moriarty himself, no matter how hard he tried." A bitter breath of a laugh escaped her. "He'll probably kill me for saying that..." She paused, and then she spoke with a very sharp tone. "They could torture me, rape me, _kill me_...and I wouldn't care. I simply _don't care_... Amazing how in one second, everything you love can be taken away from you." Not caring if she looked foolish, she laid down next to him, placing her hand on his cold cheek and memorising every part of him. She never wanted to forget how peaceful he looked at that moment. "I'm sorry, my love. I wasn't as strong as you thought. They broke me, and I could care less if they killed me, too. In fact, I wish they would." Tears started to trail her cheeks again. "How can I live another single moment without you? How could I possibly move on from this moment as if it never existed? I don't want to live another day without you, Sherlock. I don't want to go on with life. There's nothing left for me.

"I could go to John, I suppose. But I don't want to risk coming back to normal and losing him as well. I can't lose anyone else, Sherlock. Losing you shattered everything about me in a split second. I can't even imagine losing anyone else.

"Maybe I'll travel. Go to America, France, maybe even Italy. See the world, write a book, and die alone. No one could ever replace you, Sherlock. You were the only one, and now I have no one. Everyone else just seems...dull compared to you. Besides, Moriarty could take them away from me, as well. It's not worth the risk. I'll save everyone by leaving them alone. I'll become a recluse. Maybe I'll live in the mountains, watching birds and reading novels throughout the rest of my days. You wouldn't be able to live like that, my dear. You'd get too bored too easily. Besides, there'd be no cases for you to take. The city is for you, always has been. Countryside life wasn't ever for you. We're alike in that way.

Livia took a deep breath. "Look at me, talking to you as if you're still here. I don't want to accept it, love. You would probably be standing over my shoulder, telling me there was no likely way that you were still alive since all of the impossible facts had been eliminated, and whatever remained, no matter how improbable, was the truth. That was your favourite phrase, wasn't it? 'When you have eliminated the impossible, whatever remains, however improbable, must be the truth'? John never liked that quote, said it was sketchy. I admired it. Thought it was heroic, almost.

"You were my hero, Sherlock. John told me you once told him to never make people into heroes, and that even if there were heroes, you wouldn't be one of them." She closed her eyes and shook her head vigorously as the tears came faster. "I don't believe a word of it. You, Sherlock Holmes..." Her voice shook and she sat up, no longer looking at his body, "You were _my _hero. You saved me from this torture cell, and you gave me what I needed most at the time. Someone to trust, _someone to fall in love with_. And I'll be damned if you go to your grave thinking you weren't..." Livia covered her face with her hands, her body shaking with grief. "But you did anyway. I never told you that I thought you were Superman in an overcoat and blue scarf. _That_, my love, is my biggest regret.

Knowing she had only a minute more, Livia knelt next to his body and leaned in closely. "I love you, Sherlock Holmes. We will be together again one day, I swear it." Finally, she kissed him, putting all of her grief and love into it and making it last as long as she could. Then she pulled away and sat there, crying. Sebastian had walked up behind her and knelt next to her. She didn't mind. At least he wasn't Moriarty.

"Livia, I'm sorry." He put a comforting hand on her shoulder and she accepted it. An apology from an old friend who was too involved for his own good.

Moriarty stood in the doorway of the room with two men at his side, watching her with boredom. He hated how Seb treated her so politely. He would have to talk with him. "Playtime's over, kiddies." He motioned to the two men. "Take the body to St. Bart's. Try and be as inconspicuous as possible, and stay anonymous. Seb, chain her to the wall again. She can't leave, not until she's fully traumatized. We've only just begun..."

Sebastian gave him a look but did as he was told. It was a bad idea to get on James Moriarty's bad side, even if he was the hit man. Livia didn't respond, just let them do whatever they wanted. She sat against the walls and actually held out her arms for Seb to chain her. Sebastian glanced at her with pity shining in his eyes and lightly took hold of her. When he was done, Moriarty dragged the chair over and sat on it backwards a metre in front of her.

"Now what fun games shall we play tonight, my dear?"

Livia looked at the floor, her face impassive with tearstains on her cheeks and neck. "I don't care. Do whatever you want."

Moriarty tutted at her. "Poor little Olivia Rose Parkes. You don't know how to play the game. But don't worry, we have time for all of that. We have the rest of your miserable life." He smiled maliciously at her before he nodded to Sebastian. "Do your worst, Moran."

As commanded, Sebastian beat her bloody and broken. But Livia didn't feel anything. Not until the very end when she looked at Moriarty and felt such a hatred in her belly that she could scream. But she wouldn't give him that satisfaction. She may have been broken, but she would be as strong as she could be. For Sherlock.

Her last thought before the world went dark was that the pain was a bright, pure white.


End file.
